I don’t think I’ve ever been in an actively Buddhist country before. In Japan, China, and Korea, Buddhism is part of the history. But in Thailand, Buddhism is alive and well and a part of everyday life. Katie mentioned earlier the opening assembly at school—everyday they start with the national anthem and then a Buddhist prayer. One day a Buddhist monk was the speaker at the opening assembly and met with smaller groups during the day.
We see monks in saffron ro
bes, young and old, everywhere. And, of course, there’s a wat (Thai temple) on every corner.
We were told that women aren’t supposed to touch or may make eye contact with a monk, so we kept our distance. One day in Laos, a young monk came up to us and wanted to practice his English. He was at a monastery in Laos which offered meditation at 4:00 everyday for foreigners. That is where most of these pictures were taken—or on the riverwalk in Nong Khai.
There were about 12 people at the meditation, all foreigners. A monk and nun attended, but the meditation was led by a British woman. We sat on pillows- the same pillows we envied to have a few days before from the Isaan region- in a pavilion. She explained some basics of being silent, not following your thoughts, just letting them go and observing your breath. After about 15 minutes of sitting, she asked us to get up and do 20 minutes of walking meditation—we walked quietly and very slowly around the pavilion on our own. Then we returned to the pillows for 20 minutes of sitting again. About half way into it, the cicada began chirping loudly just like they do in Tennessee in the summer and then the monks somewhere closeby began chanting in a high pitched monotone which sounded a lot like the cicada in human voice.
Supijit’s house was just across from a Buddhist monastery. Boss took us through it one day. The monks keep a lot of dogs. Every afternoon about 4:00 the drum struck a beat. Boss said it was reminding people to come to something, but he forgot what it was.
The thing I think that I liked best about being a neighbor to a Buddhist monastery was the bell in the morning at 5:45 am (but not so much the one at 3 am).
The bell starts slowly, softly—one, then a few short rings, pause of several seconds, then another short series of rings,
this time a little longer than the first, softly, slowly. It keeps going this way for awhile—a gradual awakening from sleep. It’s not a harsh honk or a jarring command, only a call to start your day—come, it says, join me in a new beginning: The sky is turning light, the roosters have already done crowing, and the birds are fluttering.
These communal time clocks are a part of village life. I miss the chimes of church. Something is lost when the communal markers of time are replaced with individual alarms. Even if we live our own individual routines, the communal time clocks make us aware that we all share in the passing of time and the welcoming of day.
We see monks in saffron ro
bes, young and old, everywhere. And, of course, there’s a wat (Thai temple) on every corner.We were told that women aren’t supposed to touch or may make eye contact with a monk, so we kept our distance. One day in Laos, a young monk came up to us and wanted to practice his English. He was at a monastery in Laos which offered meditation at 4:00 everyday for foreigners. That is where most of these pictures were taken—or on the riverwalk in Nong Khai.
There were about 12 people at the meditation, all foreigners. A monk and nun attended, but the meditation was led by a British woman. We sat on pillows- the same pillows we envied to have a few days before from the Isaan region- in a pavilion. She explained some basics of being silent, not following your thoughts, just letting them go and observing your breath. After about 15 minutes of sitting, she asked us to get up and do 20 minutes of walking meditation—we walked quietly and very slowly around the pavilion on our own. Then we returned to the pillows for 20 minutes of sitting again. About half way into it, the cicada began chirping loudly just like they do in Tennessee in the summer and then the monks somewhere closeby began chanting in a high pitched monotone which sounded a lot like the cicada in human voice.
Supijit’s house was just across from a Buddhist monastery. Boss took us through it one day. The monks keep a lot of dogs. Every afternoon about 4:00 the drum struck a beat. Boss said it was reminding people to come to something, but he forgot what it was.
The thing I think that I liked best about being a neighbor to a Buddhist monastery was the bell in the morning at 5:45 am (but not so much the one at 3 am).
The bell starts slowly, softly—one, then a few short rings, pause of several seconds, then another short series of rings,
this time a little longer than the first, softly, slowly. It keeps going this way for awhile—a gradual awakening from sleep. It’s not a harsh honk or a jarring command, only a call to start your day—come, it says, join me in a new beginning: The sky is turning light, the roosters have already done crowing, and the birds are fluttering.These communal time clocks are a part of village life. I miss the chimes of church. Something is lost when the communal markers of time are replaced with individual alarms. Even if we live our own individual routines, the communal time clocks make us aware that we all share in the passing of time and the welcoming of day.
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